University of Virginia Library

Scen. 7.

Ormino, Sireno, Narete.
Orm.
Whence dost thou come Sireno?

Sir.
From the Temple straight.
But from that Temple dear Ormino which
Is now become to us the Theater
Of wo and misery, I fly from thence,
From whence and from the sorrows which it brings.
Pitty it self, for pitty flies away.

Nar.
Do'st thou Sireno from the Temple fly?
And from the horrid spectacle it shews?
But how couldst thou have notice with such speed
Of that sad sight? have they then wings to fly
So soon unto their death? It cannot be
That when thou camst from thence, Oronte should
Be with th' unhappy couple there arriv'd.

Sir.
Oronte, no; but with their ill born babes
The mournfull mothers are already brought
To pay their tribute in the temple,
O sad sight!
They there are drawn together in a troop,
Like to feerful heard that stands amaz'd,
Encompast round with cruel forragets
Ready to seize the spoyl;
They clasp their little children in their arms,
And with sad weeping eyes behold them so,
As whilst their sorrows sends distilling drops
Down to their bosoms, the poor infants suck
More tears then milk from their unhappy breasts:
And that same troop of cruel hellish curs
Encircle them about, and view their prey
With devillish delight, impatient yet
Of any small delay, since now the wind
Sends prosperous blasts to fill their wicked sails.

Orm.
O most inhumane tribute! endless wo,
And infinite misfortune, that men should
Thus generate their children to become
Slaves to their foes, and fathers be constrain'd
To mourn more at the birth then at the death
Of their unhappy ofspring.

Nar.
But I speak of another misery,
The tribute is inhumane, 'tis most true,
But yet a more inhumane cruelty
Is like to make the temple now become
A bloody Theater, whereto the fierce,
The hellish Idol of a pittiless
Inexorable Godhead, to th'incens'd
And raging fury of those snarling dogs,
For having here despis'd the image of
That proud insulting tyrant, even now
Oronte is gone up to sacrifice
Two young unhappy lovers.

Or.
O you celestial powers shall then mans blood
Thus guiltless shed, defile those altars which
Are dedicated to your deities?

Sir.
Alass, me thinks I see the Temple shake,
And totter under their revengefull hand,
As too too weak to undergo their rage,
It needs must fall to ruin, and the walls
Must of necessity by tumbling down
As from a precipice, upon their foul,
Their wicked heads, revenge the lasting shame
Of such a horrid fact.

Orm.
But what occasion, or what wicked rite
Doth move their impious sword to offer up
So infamous a sacrifice?

Nar.
'Twere too too long to tel, I scarcely have
Breath left enough to sigh.

Orm.
Yet tell me who those woful wretches are.

Nar.
Niso and Cloris, poor unhappy souls.

Orm.
O cruel destiny!

Sir.
Cloris the fair young daughter of Melisso here?

Nar.
The very same, but Niso is no more
That Niso that he was, nor Cloris now
Is Cloris or Melisso's daughter but
They both have other names, and both were born
To other fortunes, other strange events.

Orm.
What names? what fortunes? or what strange events?

Nar.
The name of Niso now is Thirsis.

Orm.
Ay me!

Nar.
Of Cloris if I well remember it,
Is Phillis.

Orm.
Ay me! Sireno.

Siren.
Ormino!
Thirsis and Phillis were our children call'd,
Whom in their infancy they took for Slaves
And carried into Thrace.
Who knows but they are they, for if they live
Still to this hour, they must be of their age
And like to them youthfull and fair.

Nar.
Your children these, fie fie, restrain your fears,
Leave off so fond a thought, I blush for shame,
Your children (mark me) those young Imps whom once
They carried into Thracia for Slaves,
Must now with in the grand Seraglio,
If now they live, amongst those Troops of Slaves
With shaved heads, lead a most slavish life,
Dis-figured so as they can scarce be known
By those that gave them suck: where these
Richly adorn'd, within the Thracian fields
Were in the Wars there by a Souldier
Of Smyrna taken Prisoners; and are not then
Poor Shepheards children, but of that discent,
As that their fortunes have had power to move
Cares, and disdains, desires, and fears, and wars
And that in mighty Kings.

Sir.
Ay me! no more Narete.

Orm.
Ay me! they are the same.

Nar.
Ay me! how can that be?